Mohan Rana - poems - - PoemHunter.com: Poems - Quotes - … · 2017-11-18 · The photograph The poet's fate The washerman ... The final translated version of the poem is by Bernard

Poetry Series

Mohan Rana- poems -

Publication Date: 2012

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Mohan Rana(1964) Mohan Rana (Hindi: ???? ????) is a Hindi language poet from India. He haswritten six poetry books. <b>Biography</b> Mohan Rana was born in Delhi, India. He completed his graduate degree fromDelhi University. His poetry work has been appreciated by poets. He usestechniques of free association and improvisation in his writing. The poet andcritic, Nandkishore Acharya, has written that, 'Amongst the new generation ofHindi poets, the poetry of Mohan Rana stands alone; it defies any categorisation.However, its refusal to fit any ideology doesn't mean that Mohan Rana's poetryshies away from thinking - but that it knows the difference between thinking inverse and thinking about poetry. For Mohan Rana the poetic process in itself isalso thought process.' Examples of his style of writing poetry are in these fifteenpoems, translated from Hindi by Lucy Rosenstein and Bernard O'Donoghue. A standard shirtAfter midnightAnother word for itAs the past approachesDid you hear it too?In your own wordsNot what the words...The blue-eyed blackbirdThe colour of waterThe evening news and the roof of the worldThe morning postThe photographThe poet's fateThe washermanTo the lost children (Translations from Hindi)

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A Patch The forest first dried inside meThe river turned into stoneThe sky became barrenThe earth fallowDesert spreadsoaking up every dropp like blotting paperEvery shape tumbled onto its roots,I had crossed a sand bridge therebefore putting it into wordsA green shoot dried under my feetA memory – just touched – became sandMy footprints disappearedCrazed hot air whirled aboutunravelling breath from my lungs Past days are saved in spider websin the outer mirrors of the inner world,Hopes lie around with broken spadesSew a patchon the torn fringes of the dayso that a door may openThis century has lost its wayin the dark lane of time With eyes open I seethis world, all aroundwords turn into dustFirst inside methe sand storm has struck [Translation from the poem in Hindi: “Ek paiband kahin jodana” by LucyRosenstein] Mohan Rana


A Standard Shirt Between midday and nightfallthere comes a timewhen the day's noise and actionsare already done with, just as now,all desires quenched,I am ready to sit downon any chair. A boy in a yellow shirthas just passed byand made me thinkof a shirt of minein those old ordinary days. So it was possible.Yes, this life was possible.And here I am, still wearinga shirt just like that. [The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy Rosenstein;The final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue] Mohan Rana


After Midnight I saw the stars far off -as far as I from them:in this moment I saw them -in moments of the twinkling past.In the boundless depths of darkness,these hourshunt the morning through the night. And I can't make up my mind:am I living this life for the first time?Or repeating it, forgetting as I livethe first moment of breath every time? Does the fish too drink water?Does the sun feel the heat?Does the light see the dark?Does the rain too get wet?Do dreams ask questions about sleep as I do? I walked a long, long wayand when I saw, I saw the stars close by.Today it rained all day long and the words were washed awayfrom your face. Mohan Rana


Another Word For It Different bluesin sky and waves.The cloud hums a dreamof eyes open.So what will this day be like,this garment of moments?The ball of threadthat knits timetaps the sleepy stones. There may be a better wayto say thissome other day. Mohan Rana


As The Past Approaches As the past approached,the future, even when you've lived it,remains to be seen. Behind that doorthere is life. But guess!Out or in?This side or the other?Closed or open?Who's waiting for me there?Who am I waiting for?I have still to discover. One foot forward,one backward.The truth isneither key nor lock. Mohan Rana


Ata Hua Atit Mohan Rana


Atmakaloho Mohan Rana


Bharam Anek Mohan Rana


Dhumketu Mohan Rana


Did You Hear It Too? All night long your restlessnesswalked the wet streets of Lisbon,pitter-patter.A silent moanwoke me at daybreak.A birdwas singing in the dawn:something had woken it up too. All night long your restlessness,unable to sleep, walked and peeredwith eyes closedinside me.A sound broke in the ocean's sighamidst the rising waves.Turning over in the sheets' folds,did you hear the bird too? Mohan Rana


Ek Kavita Phir Se Mohan Rana


Giragi?A Mohan Rana


Hindi Mohan Rana


In Your Own Words They said: Don't go to the end of the Earthbecause your lengthening shadow will frighten you.There it is the world of winged pythons;the earth there is ablaze with the fire they spit.If you arrive where it is neither day nor nightyou'll be turned into stone while you are waiting. As if I had heard these words of minefrom somebody else.If I'd had a full life rehearsalI'd have made some changes to the text;but I can't get away from my own words:returning;going away;loving you. But I wasn't good enough,I couldn't write for days.Living in evil times, I turned evil;not seeing time passing,I became imperceptibleas if trapped in clockworkdriven crazy by my own words. [27.9.1997From Is Chor Par, On This Shore] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue Mohan Rana


Kapron Se Bahar Mohan Rana


Maya Mohan Rana


Namaste Mohan Rana


Not What The Words... I dry out words in the rainuntil one day all that is leftis whiteness. The verandah dazzleswith emptiness, so I take them back in. These are the fallen, scattered shards of life.I pick them up and fit them all togetherto make a pattern whose meaning can't be made out,though in autumnthe leaves still fall in their season. A rainy cloud hitsthe edges of the garden,and a bridge that has held aparttwo riverbankscomes in as if to speak. As a rule few people travel this road.It features on no map,this road that leads nowhere.But when, out for a walk, I pick something up,the track appears: just as, when a leaf falls,a seed somewhere is born out of that falling. [7.11.2005From Dhoop ke Andhere men, In the Darkness of the Sun] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue Mohan Rana


Pankaua Mohan Rana


Philips Radio My home grew wizened on its Vivid BharatiIts highs and lows, the fluctuating wavesIts knob has forsaken us in our last whitewashCells heated in the sun turn silent by nightfallIn between the headlines Cowering from the rough wind in the open streets, at the heart of EindhovenI stand near a large building of Philips CorporationI walk the zebra-crossing ponderinglyIs it our Philips Radio? [Translation from Hindi: Arup K Chatterjee] Mohan Rana


Probashi Mohan Rana


Shaval Mohan Rana


The Blue-Eyed Blackbird Is it right to speak of myself?This will do:I am a blue-eyed blackbirdMy wings know all directionsMy flight has touched the colour of the skyWhen soaring aloft I've glimpsed the darkness beyondI've tracked drying rivers and swelling desertsI've been singed in burning forestsI've kissed anguish as it melts in the rainI've seen a woman give birth in a tree beseiged by floodI've changed my body so many timesand yet I am always a blue-eyed blackbird People in flight from war, in hiding,climbing steep slopes, stop when they see meStunned they are so high, so far,even though I live in their heartsIn the deep lines of their facescountries are shattered and rebuiltThey buy new locks, news keys to new heavensWhat did Boabdil think when he handed the keysof the Alhambra to Isabella,whispering, 'Here are the keys to paradise'?This endless flight with no day and no nightwhen the sun sets and rises at onceLongitude is locked in my eyesReading the diary of a poet's dreamslost in fog, I fallmerging with the earth's dusta blue-eyed blackbird is born againArrows, now guns, are aimed at meI have no fearMy blood will mingle with the crimson of autumnI'll take flight from another countryAnother directionCasting life from your wordsI am not of this worldIs it right to speak more of myself?This will do


[The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop] Mohan Rana


The Colour Of Water Rain falling, day after day,as if trying to clean offour permanent stains,but all it does is discolourthis well-worn shirt,and wash the memoryof all the passing seasonsfrom the walls. This is not summernor autumn nor winter:sometimes I recognize myself,then forget. Maybe after so much rainall colour will be washed outand my shirt then be the colour of water. Mohan Rana


The Cormorant Soon a new season will startif there is spring in this latitudeI'll change my clothesand stroll around guided by mapsTrees will come into leafBirds fly back from near and farI hope there will be no newsof a new warI'll clear my throat to say the half-spoken but fall silentMay this spring be so long that the memory ofAutumn does not return to the solitude of words Spring is getting shorter each yearSo short that sometimesonly two seasons seem to be left now -Good and badJoy and sorrowLove and fearYou and IMay spring and autumn be divided between usand the withering rain remain all year long I thought, let's catch the fragrance of a taste coming from the kitchenon my sleeve and write it downWishing to understand something in the quiet back yardSearching for a wee corner in a tiny spaceTime may come soonto divide the worldAll has to be forgotten in order to rememberAlone with the inventory of necessary baggage,Life requires not just breathbut flames of love in mind's shadows -the hand which breaks the fall Small change in the abacus adding the loan of drudgeryNervous in the decrepit present, feeling my dry cheeks,I haven't yet seen the pastfrom inside the mirrorWhen I leap in its luminous unknown


I lose one thing to gain another. Mohan Rana


The Evening News And The Roof Of The World While light for us is fadingelsewhere it is brightening.We can think of the duskas we walk among the park treesthat stand still with arms folded. Somewhere else there was rainwhile here it grew colder.The airs mingled to bring togethertired voices.We must get home before dark. We stopped to watch the lightbeing dusted from the sky,and I want us to be a tall towerto see round the horizonwhose hand it was that dimmed the light. While we watch the official evening newsthe world will wash its bleary face.The century will end with no grand epicthough we will spend its final days of peaceto fanfares. There was a timewhen the day's spring and the evening's fallwere something to think about: as if the Stone Age was a short while ago.Then in a dream I saw that, though we wereon the highest roof in the world,the stars were still far awayand the darkness had no end. [13.7.1992From Jaise Janam Koii Darwaazaa, As if Life Were a Door] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue


Mohan Rana


The Morning Post Sand has flown from the Sahara in the night,crossing lands and seas to fall on this city.Or has some wind blown it from nearby fields?For the first time I take notice of dust:all my life I have lived without seeingall that is ordinary, all that iswhere it should be:birds in the sky, men on land,fish in the sea's dark depths. Wearing a maskmade specially for this poem,I stand with eyes open on an empty stage,declaiming inside a glass boxmy name, nickname, surname, pen-name,address, age, birthplace, education, job.Every day since I opened my eyesI have done this, trembling like a broken puppetdangling from the stringsthat grow twisted as I wither too,gasping for breath,my next role unwritten.The post lies on the mat,curling at the edges, unreadevery morning.From there I move onanother passing day: hardly a glanceat the morning post my figure shadows. The geography of near and far inside youdecides what life brings: happiness or sorrow;time of grief, a brief moment for love.Over and over I practise the minor rulesof punctuation: life still spenton small distinctions. Yesterday'sunfinished business still unfinishedtomorrow. I grow old, trying to become newby wearing another coat today.


[1992 LeicesterFrom Subah kii Daak, Morning Post] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue Mohan Rana


The Passageway The passageway is emptyHave all decisions been made?All waiting finishedSunlight falls onto flowerpotsLike truth filtering throughThe passageway is empty unchanged despite the passing of so many feetAn empty space, a few stepsbetween entering the house and leaving itNobody sleeps hereon sheets of a carefree night The passageway is emptybetween dream and sleepLike that place on the left side of the chestwhich seems emptyWhere the hand feelsan empty hollowWhere there is no airno beat. Mohan Rana


The Photograph Woods on either side: light along the path down the middle.Woods on either side and loud laughter: path silent down the middle.Woods on either side, and screams: path unmoved down the middle.Woods on either side, bathed in dreams: the path released from sleep. This vision trembles on the eyes like the mirroring surface of water.A face bent over it is startledat the world shimmeringin those shut, moist eyes:like a compass, the love inside youtakes you on an unfamiliar pathand the truth releases you. Open out your clenched palms.The wind can't hide inside them,nor light either.They have made their own prison.I want, suddenly, to see your face:then to be surprised. [4.4.2003From Dhoop ke Andhere men, In the Darkness of the Sun] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue Mohan Rana


The Poet's Fate by Mohan RanaWere this light even whiteryou and I would be invisiblewe each would live our invisible painnever knowingthe absence of joyStunned by that voidinto which shadows vanishforms dissolvefalling, we would imagine flyingwithout a skyOnly soundsreach the surviving memoryno need for introductionsThe poet's fatepoetry's fatetogetherjust a breath [The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop] Mohan Rana


The Washerman Silently watching the morning's brilliantlight tear the dense cloudsI forgot the sky andthe aching handWatching the brimming reflectionwrinkle the waterI forgot my own ageWatching the bloodiedshadows in the swaying greeneryI forgot the nowness of the deadand turned to something elseStirring the basket of cloudsinto the blue skyI wash myself [The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop] Mohan Rana


To The Lost Children I want to write to the lost children,those whose clothes hung from the branchesof the mulberry tree, getting smalleras the branches grew.The tree gets thicker and thickeruntil years later I see the old treebent over its own shadow.The clothes turn to shreds;their memories mix in the wind,dissolve in water, sink under the seasons,fade like a forgotten poem. I set out to write about myselfbut I start talking of someone else.My contemporaries are growing older.One day they too will go missinglike the lost children: one day.One day will go missing out of many. I want to write a letterto the lost childrenposted from their lost childhood. [18.8.1995From Subah kii Daak, Morning Post] The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy RosensteinThe final translated version of the poem is by Bernard O'Donoghue Mohan Rana


Tumhara Kavi Koi Nam Na Tha Mohan Rana


Two Feet Of Land Where have you disappeared or maybe I am lostin what corner of the city, whereon two feet of landeven that is not mine No distances, nor a mind in wrathno reason to remember youthe pretext of forgetting you is the bad weather whichlike a headacheeats time up, keeps eatingbut is still hungry like today Or I am asking myselfeating time rawwhy am I hungry like a headacheThinking, I am cracking a hard nut Now I've even forgottenwhat did I ask youReplying to my own questionon two feet of landwhich is not even mine. [Translation from the poem in Hindi: “Do pairon barabar zamee par”by Lucy Rosenstein] Mohan Rana


Vilap Mohan Rana


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Mohan Rana - poems - - PoemHunter.com: Poems - Quotes - … · 2017-11-18 · The photograph The poet's fate The washerman ... The final translated version of the poem is by Bernard